


5Ever

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Band, M/M, total crack, yes seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean and their friends are members of the boy band, 5Ever, managed by the not-so-slightly corrupt Crowley.  But when their lead singer, Kevin, splits for a solo career just as the band is headed for their big break, the search is on for a worthy replacement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To be clear, this is crack-crack-crackity crack I wrote up strictly for the amusement of a couple of silly friends. The story at this point is no way complete, and might never be, though I might add more chapters if I get the yen.

**Title:** 5Ever  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Author:** tikistitch  
**Rating:** M  
**Characters/Pairings:** Sam, Dean, Benny, Cas, Michael, Crowley  
**Warnings:** AU. Cursing  
**Word Count:** ~1,000.  
**Summary:** Sam, Dean and friends are in a boy band managed by the not-so-slightly corrupt Crowley. But their lead singer, Kevin, splits for a solo career just as the band is headed for their big break. The search is on for a worthy replacement.  
**Notes:** I place the blame for this squarely on the shoulders of my DCBB artist and her evil cohorts of evil. Also, the best joke is totally stolen from a Metalocalypse episode. I apologize to all injured parties, sorry/not sorry.

 

“Can I get my fucking tea or what?”

“No whiskey, Dean,” said Sam over the intercom. He was at the mixing board behind the thick glass panel in the cramped control room.

“My throat feels like a cat took a shit in it.”

“No booze, Dean,” repeated Sam, who looked to Cas for support.

Cas was sitting cross-legged on top of the mixing board, casually smoking a Marlboro Menthol. “I like cats,” he said in a voice that seemed slightly too low for his slim frame.

“You're not supposed to smoke in here, dude. Come on!” protested Dean. “My throat.” He began dramatically clutching at his neck.

“Can you put it out, Cas?” sighed Sam.

Cas dropped his cigarette butt into a beer can. And then he calmly took out his pack, extracted another cigarette, and lit up.

“Asshole,” grumbled Dean. “Whose idea was this fucking open audition anyway?”

“Crowley,” chorused Sam and Cas.

Dean was rubbing his throat again. And then he leaned over and grabbed a guitar and started randomly strumming it. “How many fucking duets have I sung? I'm so fucking sick of this fucking song.”

“Tell us what you really think, Dean. You agreed to do this!”

“Was I drunk?”

“Yeah.”

Dean tapped his fingers on the frets. “You're my brother, Sammy. Aren't you supposed to talk me out of stupid shit I think of when I'm drunk?”

Sam looked up at Cas. The very edge of his mouth quivered up, just a bit. Which was about the limit to Cas's expressiveness. Sam checked his watch, and then held it up to the glass so Dean could see. “This guy is late. May not make it.”

“My throat is burning.”

“No booze, Dean!”

“And where the fuck is Michael?”

“I don't know. Out … doing stuff, I guess.”

The door to the recording studio suddenly burst open and a big, bearded guy stormed in. “Hey, is this the right place?” he asked, his voice tinged by a warm, southern accent.

Sam peered at a clipboard. “Are you … Benny Lafitte?” he asked over the intercom.

“Sorry, brother, I got turned around.” The guy stuck out his hand towards Dean. “You must be Dean?”

“I must be,” grumbled Dean, ignoring the outstretched hand and setting down his guitar. He grabbed a set of headphones and slapped them on Benny's head. “Get ready for your audition. Sam, set up the backing tracks.”

“Dean-”

“Start running the backing tracks now, I ain't got time for this shit.”

Benny arched an eyebrow. “Care to tell me what we're singing?”

“Ain't No Mountain High Enough. Either you know it, our you're a douche bag.”

The red recording light blinked on, and the backing tracks began playing. Gripping his headphones, Dean began to sing, low and soulful, his voice rough from wear, “Listen baby! Ain't no mountain high, ain't no valley low, ain't no river wide enough baby-”

“If you need me call, me no matter how you are, no matter how far-” Benny began, in a strong, clear tenor.

Inside the booth, Sam and Cas shared a startled look. Benny was good. No, in fact, he was fricking awesome.

“Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no valley low enough, ain't river wide enough, to keep me from getting to you babe!” they belted together.

They traded verses back and forth, each one stronger and clearer. Sam was getting goose bumps, and Cas was letting his cigarette burn to ash. Neither one said a word: they barely breathed.

“My love is alive, way down in my heart, although we are worlds apart-” They stormed through the last chorus, and the last repetition.

And then the music went silent, the track faded, and Benny and Dean were left in the recording studio, staring at one another, breathing hard, Dean looking like someone who'd just woken up from a dream.

Dean removed his headphones and set them down.

“Dean. That was amazing!” raved Sam. “Your voices are perfect together.”

Benny took off his headphones.

Cas tapped out the ash from his cigarette in the beer can.

Sam leaned forward. “Benny, you were slightly late on the first chorus,” he said over the intercom. “You think we could get one more take-?”

“No,” stated Dean flatly.

“Dean-”

“No more takes. Benny and I are gonna go find us some whiskey.” Dean put his arm around Benny's shoulders, and the two men left the recording studio, slamming the door as they left.

“Dean! DEAN!” yelled Sam, but to no avail.

He looked at Cas, who shrugged.

“You're not supposed to smoke in here you know?”

“Why not?”

“It'll stunt your growth.”

Cas's mouth did that slight flicking thing.

“Guess we've found our fifth.”

The door to the recording studio burst open again.

“Dean-” Sam started, but then he saw that it was not his brother.

“I'm here,” bellowed Michael, who had a girl on each arm. “Let's get this party started!”

Sam put his head down on the mixing board.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin gives his manager, Charlie, the 411 on 5Ever.

**Title:** 5Ever (Chapter 2 of ?????)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikistitch  
 **Rating:** M  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester, Benny Lafitte, Kevin Tran, Michael, Crowley, Charlie Bradbury  
 **Warnings:** Boy Band AU. Yes, really. Cursing   
**Word Count:** ~1000 this chapter  
 **Summary:** This chapter: Kevin gives his manager, Charlie, the 411 on 5Ever.  
 **Notes:** Like the last chapter, this is totes crack.

 

“Step aside, bitch!”

Kevin dropped his Xbox controller and emitted something suspiciously similar to a girlie scream as Charlie plopped down on the carpet next to him and switched off the monitor.

Kevin ripped off his headset. The disappointed squeals of hoards of fangirls fizzled through the headphones. “Dude! I was totally livestreaming my Skyrim!” 

“Just a safety tip,” said Charlie, who was popping a disk into the DVD player. “And I say this as your manager. Winter is coming. You might wanna go out and get one of those, yanno, IRL girlfriends.”

“I _had_ a girlfriend,” Kevin muttered. “Didn’t work out.” He grabbed a box of Fiddle Faddle and began to munch in a rather sullen manner.

“We need to do some serious oppo research here,” said Charlie, clicking one of the half dozen remote controls scattered over the carpet to bring up an image of the dreamy individuals who comprised the band 5Ever on the Michigan-sized flatscreen that dominated one wall of Kevin’s living room.

“Oh god, not that duet!” Kevin wailed, hands flying up to shield his ears. “Don't play that fucking duet. It’s all I’ve been hearing. _Ain't no mountain high enough to keep me from youuuuuu!_ ” he mocked, in a warble that ended up scattering Fiddle Faddle bits all over the room.

Charlie snatched the box of delicious candy-coated popcorn away from him. “The number one download on iTunes,” said Charlie. “And the number one pirated track worldwide. I should know, because I uploaded it.” She grinned in triumph. 

“Is that how it got out?”

“What do you mean?” Charlie crunched over a mouthful of popcorn. “Mmm. Did you ever try Screaming Yellow Zonkers, or was that before your time?”

“Crowley would never release something like that. I mean, it doesn’t sound like Balthazar sweetened it up, like he usually does. It actually sounds like Dean singing.”

“Hey, good insight. Let’s continue.” Charlie brushed off her hand on her jeans and picked up the remote.

“Let’s not.”

Ignoring him, Charlie clicked, freezing the video. “OK, Prophet Man, take me though the personnel. And pretend I’m like some geeky lesbian who spent her teen years hacking gaming software instead of reading _Tiger Beat_.”

Kevin huffed and crossed his arms. 

“Look, you wanna go back to being the moptop tenor working for Crowley, or are you Kev the Prophet?” Charlie pointed to the screen, where the paused screen depicted attractive dark-haired man who had just danced to the front of the stage. He was wearing an outfit that showed off his finely sculpted abs.

“Michael. The heartthrob,” sneered Kevin, reaching out his hand for the snack box. 

Charlie tugged it away. “And…?” she asked, shaking the box.

“He’s not the most talented. Or the best looking. Or the best dancer. Or anything!”

“But?”

“Well, just look at him! You look up ‘Malignant Narcissism’ in a dictionary and you get that dude’s picture.”

Charlie peered at the screen as if she expected a pop-up screen with the DSM-5 to appear. “Hrm.” She clicked the remote. 

Kevin used the diversion to snatch back his snack food. “Oh, it’s Dean,” he chomped. Kevin couldn’t help a fond smile coming to his face.

“So? What’s the 411 on Freckles?”

“I dunno. The guy’s like a cipher inside a riddle inside a soft taco. I always got the feeling him and Sam had had a rough life somehow, but all I ever got from Dean was attitude. He’s a drinker, I know that.”

“He has a problem?”

Kevin tossed up a popcorn bit and caught it in his mouth. “I think he’d been in and out of rehab before. But I dunno. What kind of place could hold that guy for long? He knows how to pick locks, you know.” He shrugged, seeming to warm to the subject. “He writes some, but Crowley won’t let any of his stuff on the records. Doesn’t fit the image, or something.”

“Oh, frustrated artist. This is good stuff.”

Kevin pointed to the screen as a man who looked like the human equivalent of a Labrador puppy shambled into view. “And that’s Dean’s brother, Sam. Don’t fuck with him, Dean will rip out your spleen. If you’re looking for dark secrets, Sam’s your boy.”

Charlie has her elbows to her knees, head in her hands. “Do tell!”

“Heh. Secret girlfriend. He and Jess have been together since they were like thirteen or something. And stupid in love. Crowley won’t let him admit it, since he says it’s bad for the band’s image.”

“His dark secret is that he’s happy?” Charlie was peering over her glasses. 

“Hey, you asked.” A bearded man danced to the forefront. “Benny, I don’t know him. Decent voice, I guess.”

“Tell me about my dreamboat!” urged Charlie as a slim, dark haired man stepped to center stage.

“Wait, I thought you were totally gay?”

Charlie sighed. “Dude, he’s pretty. What’s his deal?”

Kevin chewed on that for a bit. Literally. He licked his fingers. “Cas. Just Cas. I think he’s Michaels’ relative. Cousin or something. He smokes.”

“Wait, that’s it? That’s all you have on my next husband? He smokes?”

Kevin shrugged. “Marlboro Menthols. And he won’t take lead vocal.”

“He won’t sing lead?” Kevin shook his head. “Why not?”

“No clue. And he patters around after Dean like he’s some kinda lost puppy.”

Charles squinted at the screen. “Yeah, him and Dean. I can see that.”

Kevin reared back. “What? Him and Dean like _him and Dean_?”

“Yeah.”

Kevin shook the Fiddle Faddle in consternation. “No way Jose!” 

“But they’d be cuuute!”

“Not in ten krilliion years!”

“Krillion isn’t a real number,” Charlie sniffed. “And I still think they’re totes adorbs.”

“You can’t ship them, they’re real!”

“Sure I can! I can even make up a name! Like _CasDean_ or something….”

“Ugh.”

“KEVIN!” came a voice. 

Kevin and Charlie cringed. Kevin hid the box behind his back. “Yes, Mom?” he asked as his mother strode into the living room.

“Uh, hello, Mrs. Tran,” said Charlie.

“Kevin, have you been studying for your MCATs?”

“Uhhhh…”

Charlie leapt at the DVD player and ejected the disk. “Oh, yeah, he was here studying, and I interrupted him. Sorry.”

“Two hours today, Kevin,” said Mrs. Tran, tapping her watch. And then, nodding curtly at Charlie, she stalked out of the room.

“Dude,” Kevin whispered to Charlie. “You’re supposed to defend me against her. Like, tell her I’m not going to med school. I have the number one track!”

“You _had_ the number one track. Defend yourself, Prophet. That’s your mom. She scares the living crap outta me.” Charlie dumped the DVD in her bag and retreated, grabbing the Fiddle Faddle box as a closing gambit. “Later, bitches.”

Kevin sat on the floor a while longer, and then, tossing the controller onto his Xbox with a sigh, went and picked up an organic chemistry textbook and, slumping onto the couch, opened it up. He looked up and down the room, and then reached under the couch cushions and plucked out a magazine. He eagerly spread the latest issue of _Tiger Beat_ over his textbook and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I'm totes jonesing for Fiddle Faddle. Do they even still make it?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When 5Ever's producer is caught in a scandal, Crowley has to find a new producer, fast! Cas is not pleased.

**Title:** 5Ever (Chapter 3 of !?)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikistitch  
 **Rating:** M  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester, Benny Lafitte, Kevin Tran, Michael, Crowley, Charlie Bradbury, Balthazar  
 **Warnings:** Boy Band AU. Yes, really. Cursing  
 **Word Count:**  
 **Summary:** This chapter: when 5Ever's producer is caught in a scandal, Crowley has to find a new producer, fast! Cas is not pleased.  
 **Notes:** True fact about tikis: tikis cannot resist a CHALLENGE.

 

_“But the young lady swore to me upon a stack of bibles that she was 18 years of age!”_

Whatever Balthazar may have said after that was swallowed up by the hordes of reporters and paparazzi that swept over him and engulfed him right there on the courthouse steps. Flashbulbs popped and the whirring sound of automatic shutter advances filled the air.

“Hey, yeah, that's totally gonna work, Balthy,” said Dean, clicking off the TV remote.

“I guess when you have a sixteen-way, you don't always stop to check picture ID,” said Sam. 

Benny looked up from the table where he, Sam and Cas sat playing cards. “That idiot...?”

“Balthazar,” said Dean. He had picked up his guitar and slouched back on the couch, starting to strum a few chords.

“Baltha-what-the-hell? Man keeps a stack o' bibles near his bed?”

“Maybe he gives them out? Like party gifts?” Sam speculated.

“He'll be somebody's prison girlfriend soon,” said Dean.

“Got any threes?” Sam asked Cas.

Cas flicked ashes into the Hamm's beer ashtray in the center of the table. “Go fish.”

“Dammit!”

Just then their manager, Crowley, slithered in the door, bearing fetid air and a boom box, which he sat in the middle of the card table, thus ruining the game with great efficiency.

“Crowley. Don't be a mother trucker,” grumbled Benny.

“Not possible,” Dean told Benny.

“All right, my lovelies, gather round. As of this week, your pretty little behinds have been bumped from the number one spot by that fiendish little traitor.”

“Wait, aren't we still number one?” asked Dean, who had roused himself from the couch. “The chart numbers don't even come out until tomorrow.”

“I have friends in low places, dear.” Crowley looked to and fro. “Where the hell is Michael?”

“Where he always is,” said Dean.

“You've done something with him, have him tucked away in your little love nest?” Crowley inquired of Cas.

Cas blew smoke in Crowley's face.

Crowley coughed. “Now, listen, and learn. This is the only copy, secreted out especially for you.” He clicked the play button, and a very catchy pop beat started.

 

_It's less easy to believe_  
That Cockney git is lying to you  
But when his forked tongue  
Is pressing so near  
You know the dude's lying to you  
Are you wrong, write a song?  
When the album come along  
The cut's nowhere to be found  
Are now no one can see  
She's your bride to be  
You gotta hide it from the fans  
Why don't you 

_Sing another song_  
Nothing is wrong  
Not going back there forever  
Try to tell it straight  
You just get the haters  
Never goin' back to 5ever.... 

 

Sam punched the stop button.

“He's singing about us?” asked Dean, his voice jumping up an octave or two. “Can he do that?”

“He just did, brother,” chuckled Benny.

“We'll sue him!” declared Sam, who had much faith in legal solutions. 

Crowley studied his fingernails. “Sue him for what, poppet? Other than poor taste in management?” He shook his head. “He's obviously trying to bait me. Him and that ginger tealeaf. We will need to counter this move, and swiftly.”

Dean clamped a hand on his brother's shoulder. “Since Balthazar's doing ten to twenty in the county pen, does this mean we get Sammy to pinch hit as producer?”

“Nonsense,” said Crowley. “Do not worry your pretty heads, we shall intervene with a professional twirler of dials. I already have someone in mind.” And with that, he flounced out of the room.

“I need a damn drink,” said Dean.

Benny nodded, and the two were out the door like thieves in the night. Slightly alcoholic thieves in the night, that is.

Sam slumped back in his seat. “Those two: what the hell?”

Cas, who was gathering up the cards spread over the table and forming them into a deck, shrugged his shoulders and took up his cigarette.

“I mean, does it occur to you they've been joined at the hip recently?”

Cas, cigarette dangling from his lip, shuffled cards.

“I mean,” said Sam, who obviously needed to clarify, and who also leaned his large frame forward, “It's not just me, right?”

Cas began to set the cards up for a game of solitaire.

Sam sat back and sighed. “I want you to know, I value these heart-to-heart talks we have, Cas.”

Michael appeared at the door, poised in mid-rap. _“I'm taking you back to the old school 'cause I'm an old fool who's so cool, if you wanna get down I'm gonna show you the way, whoomp!”_ He pointed across the room.

“There it is,” answered Cas, in a rather conversational tone it might be added. He shuffled and, almost smiling, turned over an ace.

“My man, Cas,” said Michael, flopping down on the couch.

“You just missed Crowley,” Sam told him.

“Go, me!”

“Where the hell _were_ you, Michael? It was a band meeting.”

Michael sat up and put his elbows over the back of the ratty couch. “Where am I, ever?” He flopped back down, out of sight.

“Kevin is making fun of us.”

 _“The cigarette you smoke_  
'Cause you ain't in on the joke  
Better to stay blind  
Than admit he's on your mind  
Ain't going back to 5Ever....”  
sang Michael.

Cas looked up and frowned a Marlboro frown.

Sam crossed his arms. “How the hell did you hear the song, Michael? I thought Crowley had the only copy.”

“I have my ways. Can I bum a smoke, Cas?”

Cas extracted the pack of menthols from his pocket and lobbed it over the couch.

“I thought you didn't smoke, Michael,” said Sam. Michael sent a middle finger up over the couch. “Oh, and Crowley is sending in a new producer.”

“Ha. Balthy got himself in good this time,” chuckled Michael. A cloud of smoke came wafting up over the back of the couch, and the cigarette pack launched itself towards Cas.

At the last minute, Sam leaned over and snatched the pack out of the air before Cas could catch it. He extracted a cigarette. Cas raised an eyebrow. 

“When in Rome,” sighed Sam.

 

Sam tapped his wristwatch, as if expecting answers. He leaned back against the mixing board in the control room. “I understand that Michael isn't here, because he's never here. But where the hell is my brother? And Benny? And where's Crowley? And the new producer?”

Cas, who was lounging in a swivel chair – by coincidence, the only chair in the booth, but he had arrived first today – shrugged and reached for another cigarette. They were, seemingly, the only two people in the entire recording studio.

The door opened and a ridiculously handsome man stood in the doorway. “Hello there!” he said, giving a brilliant, high-cheekboned grin. “I'm Jack,” he said, extending a hand towards Sam.

“Sam,” said the same. “You're the producer?”

“I am.”

“And this is Cas,” said Sam, as he didn't believe his band mate would ever spared the words to introduce himself. 

But Jack had already stridden forward and, gripping the arms of Cas's chair, wrenched it around to face him. As Cas squirmed back into the chair, his face white as library paste, Jack leaned over, nearly nose to nose with him, and murmured, “Well, hello there! And where have you been all my life, gorgeous?”

Cas quivered in terror.

“Cat got your tongue?” asked Jack with a wink. “Maybe I can find it. I like cats.”

Jack suddenly emitted a small choke as he was abruptly wrenched back by someone yanking on his shirt. He was turned around and came face to face with Dean Winchester, who currently had a death grip on Jack's collar.

“Benny,” said Benny, who was now leaning in the door frame. “And that's my buddy, Dean. His hobbies are collecting knives, high caliber firearms, and producer's spleens.”

“It's good to have a hobby!” said Jack brightly as Dean loosened his grip on his collar. He spread his arms. “I think we're all gonna get along just fine!” He looked around. “Hey, you guys wanna hug it out?”

Dean stepped between Jack and Cas. “Cas doesn't hug.”

“Maybe later,” said Jack, winking at Cas, who let out a small yelp.

“Ah, so you've all met,” said Crowley, who also crowded into the booth. “And we're on big fucking happy family. And where the hell is Michael?”

“Michael isn't manifesting on this plane of existence today,” said Sam.

“I'll kick his astral plane,” grumbled Crowley. 

“Splendid!” said Jack. “And hey, I have a lead vocal for you, Castiel.”

“I don't sing lead,” whispered Cas.

“Cas doesn't sing lead,” stated Dean.

“Maybe you will, for me?” asked Jack.

 _“Straight up are you really gonna love me forever, or am I caught in a hit and run?”_ sang Michael, who had somehow manifested in the recording studio. 

“There's the little wanker,” said Crowley. “All right, get going, time is money, or actually money is money, or something inspiring like that.” He thereupon exited, stage right.

Michael executed a backflip, which upset a number of microphones.

“Hey, stop the gymnastics. That's my gig!” yelled Dean. He grabbed Cas and made for the studio. Benny, cracking a grin at Jack, followed him.

Jack made for the chair that Cas had vacated, but Sam beat him. “I like to sit in on the recording sessions,” said Sam.

“Yes, this is going to be splendid,” said Jack, just as there was a loud crash and a lot of cursing from the studio. “One big happy family.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** 5Ever (Chapter 4 of ???????)  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Author:** tikistitch  
 **Rating:** M  
 **Characters/Pairings:** Dean Winchester/Castiel, Sam Winchester, Benny Lafitte, Kevin Tran, Michael, Crowley, Charlie Bradbury, Balthazar, Pamela Barnes  
 **Warnings:** Boy Band AU. (Yes, really.) Cursing. More crack than a Toronto Mayor.  
 **Word Count:** 2000 this chapter  
 **Summary:** This chapter: Crowley arranges for a photo session with 5Ever's new line-up, but the boys are not so sure about the wardrobe solutions.   
**Notes:** So, basically I started writing this boy band indirectly because for some reason I signed up for the DCBB this year and my artist and her evil cohorts got it in their heads this was needed. And then Z caught wind of it and THIS happened:

 

 

Sam was sitting on the couch in the break room reading a book (he was wont to do that) when his phone buzzed. He picked it up.

_“STDYING 4 YR LSAT BITCH?”_

Covering the screen with one large hand, he scanned frantically around the room. Cas and Benny were playing ping pong, Cas invisible behind a cloud of smoke, Dean was gaping open-mouthed at that stupid medical soap opera he was addicted to, and Michael was – of course – nowhere to be found.

Quietly, he crept out of the room and slinked around the corner. 

“NO”

_“DONT U WANNA LWYR UP?”_

“YES BUT MGR KEEPS US BZY”

_“UR MGR = DOUCHE”_

“HOW ABT U?”

_“NOT MOTIV8D”_

“NOT GONNA B DR TRAN?”

_“IM KEV THE PROFIT”_

“O YEAH GIVE ME A REVEL8TION”

_“UR BRO IS GONNA CURSE SOON”_

Sam was flexing his digits for a witty reply when he heard Dean's voice moaning, loud and clear “Son of a bitch! What the actual fuck?” He sighed.

“GTG L8TRS”

Sam returned to the break room, where Dean was holding up some kind of animal skull. He was bellowing “I'm not wearing this shit!” at Becky the wardrobe girl, who popped her gum and rolled her eyes.

“Why not, Dean? It's a dead thing!” said Sam.

“Oooo, hiiii Sam!” said Becky, who was suddenly fluttering her eyelids. You could almost visualize the cartoon hearts dancing over her head.

“Back!” Dean warned Becky, throwing an arm between her and his brother. Becky fumed, looking ready to tear a chunk out of Dean with her teeth. He held up the skull to Sam. “This is supposed to go on my crotch!”

“Wait,” laughed Sam, “that's a codpiece?” 

“Wait'll you see _your_ outfit,” Dean grumped.

“Where in hell are my pants?” growled Benny, holding up something that looked far too much like an adult diaper.

“Those _are_ your pants,” Becky sniffed. “You have ten minutes before the photographer gets here.” And, throwing another glare at Dean, she turned on her heel and left.

“Cas, what about your outfit?” asked Dean.

Cas, cigarette dangling from his lips, bent over and picked up something that looked very much like an outer space bathrobe.

“It's a bathrobe!” said Dean.

Cas shrugged, and let the vestment fall back upon the floor.

“Wait, am I supposed to get these on my feet?” asked Sam, picking up a pair of ridiculous platform boots. “How am I supposed to walk?”

“You don't need to walk, darling,” said Crowley, who had just wafted into the room. “Just be a good moose and put on those clothes so we won't keep the nice photographer waiting. Come along, time is money, a stitch in time, don't look a gift moose in the antlers, blah blah blah....”

“Crowley, we're not wearing your crap!” said Dean.

“Reminder, cupcake, that this is all for charity.”

“Charity like your trust fund, Crowley?” snarked Benny, who was still holding his diaper.

Crowley edged closer to Dean. If their heights had been more comparable, this would have put him all up in Dean's face, but instead ended up somewhere in the mid-chest region. “Children's charity, and you my friend are the soul of generosity. Unless perhaps you don't like children?”

_“When the party is packed but the people are whacked!”_ sang Michael, who had just breezed in wearing a pair of roller skates and very little else. 

“What the hell are you supposed to be?” asked Dean.

_“Life is just too much for you, you don't know what to do, can't make it no how no way, this is what you say: say Captain!”_ Michael pointed to Cas as he skated pas.

“Say what,” said Cas, who discontinued neither smoking nor flipping through his magazine.

“It seem Michael approves of his costume, I suggest the rest of you boys transform yourselves into a more inspiring level of nakedness and get into your wardrobe!” The last was a low, goose pimple-inducing growl, accompanied by a glare directed around the room.

“Hey, that's another thing,” said Dean. “That new producer, Jack Harkness? He's been sexually harassing Cas!”

“Well simply tell Cas to sexually harass him back. Am I supposed to do _everything_ around here?”

“Well yeah. As manager, I thought that was your job, yeah,” said Sam, who had managed to put his left go-go boot onto his right foot and was sort of limping around like a wounded ungulate.

A camera flash went off and everyone blinked. “Smile, you're on candid camera!” sad the brunette now standing in the doorway with a rather large camera and an even bigger grin on her face.

Crowley stepped forward and, clasping her hand, leaned over and kissed it. “Boys, kindly be introduced to Miss Pamela Barnes, award-winning photojournalist. I shall now retire to count my money.” And with that he departed.

“You boys ready for your close-up?” she asked.

“No,” chorused several voices, and there were also a couple of obscene gestures. 

“Pick me pick me pick me!” said Michael, who was still circling the room, raising his hand.

“Suits me. Where can a girl get a cocktail around here?” She flopped down on the couch beside Cas, who gallantly moved his legs to give her room. “Hey, Roller Girl?” she shouted at Michael. “Can anyone here fix a good dirty martini?”

“Here I come to save the day!” sang Michael, who rolled out of the room, presumably in search of booze, but we are talking Michael, so who really knew.

She aimed the camera at the piece of wardrobe draped over the back. “What's with the Depends?” she asked.

“Our costumes,” sighed Sam.

Pamela roared with laughter. She picked up the shorts and draped them over Cas's head like a hat, and then, as Cas didn't react, snapped a few quick photos.

“Hey, you're not supposed to take pictures with him like that,” Sam told her.

“What, wearing a diaper on his head?”

“No, smoking.”

“How do you get him to put down the cigarette?” asked Pamela.

“That's why he's never in the pictures.”

“I'm here with booze you can use!” said Michael, skating in toting a tray piled with fifths of something or other.

“Hallelujah!” sang Benny, grabbing a bottle or two. He squinted at the label. “Old rotgut, which happens to be a personal favorite.” 

“All right, gentlemen,” said Pamela, rising and cracking her knuckles. “Starlight Express here just gave me an idea.” 

_“Memory! All alone in the moonlight!”_ sang Michael.

“Wrong bad musical, Grizabella. Anyway, I'm supposed to take some photos for my music periodical, but you dickheads aren't being cooperative. So, there's only one way to settle this.” She snatched a fifth off Michael's tray. “We do shots.”

Dean snorted. “Sorry, Lois Lane, but 5Ever don't get drunk.”

Pamela hoisted Sam's unused size eleventy-million space boot. “Yeah? With _this_ as a shot glass?”

“Oh, challenge accepted!” said Dean. 

And so chairs were scraped across the floor, and the ragtag group assembled around the battered card table. Including Michael, after Dean and Benny tag-teamed him.

Bottles were uncorked, and the moose boot was filled.

“I believe I am beginning to feel something,” said Cas after a few rounds.

“Whaaaaa-?” asked Dean. Cas was difficult to hear, as he was currently hanging upside-down off the back of the couch. Remarkably, he was still able to smoke in this position.

“Cassie isn't drun- drun- drun- _inebriated_ ,” Sam clarified for him. Sam, who had never quite been able to take off the large boot, was currently situated underneath the card table, so his voice was muffled as well.

“What's wrong with 'im,” slurred Michael, who, as he had somehow misapprehended they were playing strip poker, was now dressed in a pair of roller skates, and nothing else.

“Can you puddon some damn pants!” declared Benny, who tossed the adult diaper shorts at Michael but somehow ended up hitting Sam in the face with them.

“Hey,” said Pamela, who picked up the shorts of a sputtering Sam and held them aloft. “You guys! You guys! You guys! Hey! I gotta idea. A funny, funny idea! That's funny!”

“Yeah? What?” asked Dean.

 

Sam awoke to the sound of his phone buzzing. 

It was the loudest sound ever in the whole world.

Moaning, he covered his eyes and slapped the table beside him, hoping to clutch the horrible phone. He managed to nudge it, and sent it skittering off the nightstand.

He rose, cursing, and noticed that he was wearing only his pajama pants and one moon boot. This didn't seem to make sense, but neither did much of anything else. He limped over to the phone and picked it up.

_“HEY BITCH SEEN CVR OF RLLNG STONE YET?”_

“What?” Sam asked the phone, which did not answer, as it was a text message.

He limped downstairs and into the kitchen of the house he shared with Dean. His brother was hunched over a cup of coffee, looking like he had just been run over by a racist truck after being chased by zombies.

“Dean? Rolling Stone?” Sam managed to choke. His throat felt like a sheaf of sandpaper had curled up inside there to die, and a John Bonham drum solo was playing in his head.

“Mphrsgralph?” muttered Dean.

Wincing, Sam lowered himself to the breakfast table and flipped open his laptop. He squinted at the blurred screen, taking at least three tries to type “ROLLING STONE” into Google.

“Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god,” he said when at last the screen came up and the offending photograph was splashed across his entire screen.

5EVER IN SPACE, it was titled.

“Brarhghh?” inquired Dean.

Sam turned the screen so it glared at his bloodshot brother. “Do you remember doing this?”

Dean blinked bleary eyes, and then suddenly seemed to grow quite sober. “Wha-?”

“When did we put on the costumes?” asked Sam.

“What costumes?” asked Dean.

“The ones the photojournalist lady wanted us to wear.”

“What photojournalists?”

“The one Crowley hired!”

“What's a Crowley?”

Sam grabbed his phone and hit the speed dial. “Crowley!” he shouted.

Dean moaned and covered his ears.

_“Congratulations, my dear and inevitably quite hung-over moose: our little band is number one with a bullet once again, and Miss Barnes has ensured herself another photojournalism award. Remember to get the studio bright and early tomorrow for recordings! Now I must run to go preen. Toodles!”_

The line went dead.

The phone buzzed again, this time with a text. _“DONT BTHR W/LSAT DUDE THEYLL NVR LET UR ASS INTO LAW SCHL NOW HAHA.”_

Sam put the phone down.

“Can I show my face, ever again?” Dean moaned.

“No. No you can't, Dean. Not again. Not ever.”

“OK, good.” 

“What are we gonna do?” asked Sam.

“Kill Crowley?” asked Dean.

“All right. Sounds good.”

“Awesome. I'll bring the shovel,” said Dean.


End file.
